Title: Angel of Music Revealed

Author: Golden Trillium

Fandom: The Phantom of the Opera

Rating: M for strong sexuality. Some borderline- kind of non-consent.

Pairing/Summary/etc: The Phantom/Christine. How the post-Music of the Night scene could have gone differently. Smut, little plot. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Not making any money.

The Phantom looked down at Christine's white-clad form, lying on the bed.

His bed.

He had carried her there and laid her down on it, and he had been almost surprised to discover that she had weight, that she was not an ethereal wisp in his arms. Not too much weight to carry- never that. He would have carried her for miles- but only this short distance had been necessary. She was lying on his bed.

She was a girl on the brink of womanhood, lush and ripe and beautiful, and he had brought her here, meaning to show her at last who he really was. At least to a point.

What should he do now?

He didn't know why she had fainted. It was a mystery to him, but he was no longer alarmed as he had been at her initial slump against his shoulder. She seemed to be all right. Her breathing was deep and regular, making her shapely bosom rise and fall in slow rhythm. She lay, apparently sleeping. She did not wake, and he was not disposed to wake her.

She lay there for him.

That thought came to the Phantom suddenly. Perhaps Christine had fainted because that was the only way that he could have this. This time to look down at her, rake her form with his eyes to his heart's content, at close range and with no distractions. The only way- dare he think it?- that he would be able to touch her. To…

If she stayed like that, he could do anything he wanted to her.

A dark resolve crept into his mind, and he stepped forward, not back, and sat down on the foot of the bed, staring at her. She was mesmerizing. Dark rivers of curly hair spilled over the pillow- his pillow!- long eyelashes lay lush on porcelain cheeks, red lips curved, relaxed in sleep, like a Cupid's bow. His thigh, where he sat, just barely touched her feet.

The Phantom noted that she was still wearing her shoes, and he made up his mind to take them off. He told himself he was only being kind, making her more comfortable, but there were other reasons for it than that- reasons that came from the darker recesses of his mind. Moving as if underwater, slowly, with infinite deliberateness, he slid one hand under one delicate ankle and grasped the heel of the shoe with the other.

It slipped off easily. She never stirred. He leaned over and set the shoe soundlessly on the floor beside the bed, then turned to do the same with the other. The arch of her foot, when he took it in both increasingly-emboldened hands, was a work of exquisite architecture to him, worth a song in itself.

She was also wearing stockings.

The Phantom's eyes slid up the white silk that covered Christine's legs, to the place where it disappeared under her skirt.

Very far up indeed.

He took off his gloves, first. Touching her feet with leather-covered hands was one thing, but this- this would be even better, and the Phantom wasn't going to let a single sensation of it go to waste. He dropped his gloves beside the shoes, and scooted a little closer to her, lifting up her feet and setting them in his lap.

Christine sighed, a quiet, breathy sigh that seemed to signify descent into greater relaxation.

Good.

He started up one leg, both hands around it, so as not to miss one tiny aspect of its shapeliness. The silk of the stocking was smooth, but not as smooth as her skin when he reached the top and touched her bare thigh. The stocking came down, his hands worshipfully gliding on pale, bare skin all the way.

Christine sighed again.

The second leg received the same treatment, and still she did not wake.

The universe was being kinder to the Phantom today than it had been in…well, perhaps his whole life.

The stockings had been set aside, but there wasn't anything preventing him from continuing to caress her legs, so he did. Up and down…up and down again, daring a little more pressure, daring even above where the stockings had reached, daring to push the skirt aside and see. He scooted in closer, so her knees lay in his lap now; he returned one hand to her feet, fascinated by the delicate arch of the bones. There was another place that was more fascinating still…

He found his other hand hovering over the junction of her legs.

Should he touch her there?

He could feel the warmth radiating up from her, and brought his hand down to meet it, cupping her over the triangle of her underwear. She caught her breath, and he stiffened- but again, she did not wake.

So he could touch her there.

He set his hand down again, more firmly, and her closed-eyed face shifted and a tiny, unidentifiable sound escaped her lips. Perhaps she would wake, after all.

Well, then, she would wake and find she was his!

With sudden decision, the Phantom turned towards Christine and leaned over her, one hand propped on the surface of her bed, the other now moving more purposefully between her legs. He pushed the crotch of her underwear aside, parted her warm, damp folds with agile fingers, and…so that was the place that- well, as he had heard and spied on a few inadvertent demonstrations of- would make a woman half-crazy with passion?

It made Christine moan melodically and push her hips up towards him, blindly, in her sleep. Her head turned to one side, as if seeking something.

"Angel…" she whispered, just barely loud enough to hear.

And that was when the Phantom changed his mind.

A second ago he had meant to go through with it- take her, by force if he had to. But…no. No. The darker part of his mind that urged it was overcome, overcome by the innocent, unthinking response that Christine gave him, even in dreams. Her Angel- that was him. The name she had given him, knowing nothing of his true nature. And he couldn't do that to her.

Not when she had already showed him such trust.

The Phantom stood, moving Christine's legs aside as quickly as he could without waking her. He pulled her skirt back down the way it had been, hardly daring to look at her now, lest he feel himself so basely tempted again. There was nothing he could reasonably do about the shoes, or- dear God!- the stockings, so he left them where they were, on the floor.

For a moment. On second thought, he turned back, picked up the stockings, and stuffed them into a drawer of a bureau that stood nearby. He'd keep them, for a remembrance of this.

He'd think of some story to tell her when she woke.

TBC